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Volu m e II - Purdue University Calumet

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Ryan Clifford Smith<br />

<strong>Purdue</strong> <strong>University</strong> <strong>Calumet</strong><br />

The Green Envy of Twain<br />

One would be perhaps foolish, actually downright incorrect, in entering into a discussion about<br />

literary realism without noting the heavy thumb that Mark Twain, or Samuel Clements depending on your<br />

literary politics, has on the tail of the larger movement. Where it would be difficult to defend that Twain,<br />

in all his loaming glory, had definitively begun the realism tradition, if there was a beginning to be clearly<br />

accentuated, it would be equally difficult to support any idea that posited that Twain didn’t provide the<br />

wind that fed the fire which eventually burned the romantic tradition the preceded him. Hemingway once<br />

said, in his essay Green Hills of Africa, that "All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark<br />

Twain called Huckleberry Finn,” and if we contend that is true then we are only being responsible in<br />

discussing Twain from such a perspective. Therefore, this essay begins there, with Twain taking step one<br />

for American literature as a whole, step two being that which left his contemporaries existing in their own<br />

way, but forever surrounded by the wide breadth of Twains arms, and step three being where he left<br />

literature after he was gone and how American literature moved, not necessarily beyond Twain, but just as<br />

one might try to earn a fathers trust with a legacy already gone.<br />

Using Hemingway’s famous quote as our guide, we will start with his claim that “there was nothing<br />

before” Mark Twain. To make such a claim is to be as brash as only Hemingway famously could be,<br />

rejecting Nathanial Hawthorne and even Herman Melville almost completely by comparison. Where it does<br />

seem to be fairly well supported that Hawthorne was, by no means, a realist in his prose, it is less cut and<br />

dry with Melville. While if we could all agree that Moby Dick was almost completely and undeniably a<br />

piece of romantic literature, Bartleby the Scrivener, published in 1853, is decidedly less easily<br />

compartmentalized. Admittedly, concession is required in relation to how the prose is handled with<br />

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